


Sakizuke

by Fyre



Series: Hunger [16]
Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Caretaking, Domestic Fluff, Love, Rope Bondage, Shibari, Trust
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-28
Updated: 2019-09-28
Packaged: 2020-10-30 02:03:19
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,229
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20806700
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Fyre/pseuds/Fyre
Summary: There is something exquisite and delicate about the knots and the binding. He glances at the rope, puzzled again. After all, Crowley has tied him up with many things why would he think Aziraphale would object…Oh.He touches his lips, emotion welling up in him.The rope isred. It isn’t meant to bind Aziraphale.





	Sakizuke

**Author's Note:**

> I'm going to apologise in advance - my output is being slowed by necessity, as I have borked my hands with too much typing. But I still managed to two-finger-tap this little beauty out :D

It’s a lovely day in London, not too busy, crowded or hot despite the sunshine.

Perfect weather, in fact, for a stroll and an ice cream in St. James’s Park. Aziraphale has to admit he’s very keen to layer as many happy memories over the nightmarish day he watched Crowley – and his own body, of course – being dragged off to Heaven and not being able to help.

So they sit on the bench and Crowley hisses to keep the swarming squirrels at bay until Aziraphale finishes his strawberry split.

“D’you ever miss London?” Crowley asks, glancing at him.

Aziraphale licks the last of the vanilla ice cream from the stick and considers it. “You know,” he says after a thoughtful pause, “I _don’t_. I thought I would, but…” He offers Crowley a smile. “Well, it’s like putting on a comfortable old jacket when we come back to it, but we have something much more suited to us elsewhere.”

“‘Much more suited’,” Crowley echoes, a smile twitching his lips. “Call it what it is, angel. S’home.”

Oh, there’s something so wonderful hearing him call it that. Not simply their house, but their ‘home’, something neither of them have really had for… well… ever. The bookshop came very close to it, but it was more of a refuge than a home and, even then, Heaven infiltrated it whenever they felt the need.

“You’re making that face again,” Crowley says, smile curling into a grin.

“What face?” Aziraphale asks indignantly.

“The…” Crowley waves a hand in front of his own face. “You know. Soppy one.” He raises his eyebrows. “Thinking soft thoughts, eh?”

“Only of home,” Aziraphale says, then adds, because he can, “_Our_ home.”

It still delights him how easy it is to make Crowley blush and he does it _so_ beautifully. Even better when he makes the half-groan, half-sigh of fond exasperation. Whether it’s at his own flustered, pink-cheeked response or Aziraphale’s delight, Aziraphale has never been able to decide. “Angel!”

“You brought it up!” Aziraphale says, laughing. “And you’re right. It _is_.”

Crowley looks so inutterably happy that Aziraphale has to duck his head to keep himself from being utterly overwhelmed with emotion. Crowley must understand for he reaches over and takes Aziraphale’s hand and doesn’t say a word.

“Do you want to pop by the bookshop?” Crowley asks some time later as they meander along the paths towards Horseguards. He has, Aziraphale is happy to notice, forgotten entirely about letting go of Aziraphale’s hand and Aziraphale has absolutely no desire at all to remind him.

“I think so,” he says. “Walking there? It’s a pleasant enough day.”

“And the Ritz for afters?” Crowley suggests with a knowing smile. “We can’t have them forgetting their most faithful guests.”

Aziraphale happily squeezes his fingers. “That sounds _perfect_,” he agrees.

The day quite flies by and by the time they turn south in the Bentley, the sun is heading towards the horizon. Aziraphale carefully balances the box of petit fours on his lap.

“Thank you, my dear.”

“For what?”

He smiles at Crowley. “For a lovely day.”

“Angel…” Crowley gives him a very pointed look.

“Oh, very well! A quite marvellous, utterly charming, and thoroughly… _divine_ day,” Aziraphale retorts with an equally pointed sniff, fighting down a smile. Crowley’s shoulders shake with suppressed laughter. “Did you get everything done that you needed to do?”

While Aziraphale had puttered around in the bookshop, Crowley had run out for half an hour, saying he had a quick errand to tend to.

“Oh.” A flush crawls across the demon’s cheeks. “Yeah. S’fine. Nothing to worry about.”

The blush suggests it is, and something very intriguing at that, but Aziraphale knows Crowley well enough not to press. If Crowley wants him to know anything, he’ll know it in good time. And Crowley has impeccable timing when it comes to… intriguing things.

Instead, he sits and gazes out of the window as – for once – Crowley drives perfectly smoothly in the direction of home. Only a few tricks slip them through the worst of the leftover rush hour traffic and they drive through their front gate just after sunset.

“Shall I make tea, darling?”

Crowley chuckles. “Any excuse for another of your little cakes, eh?”

“Well, it was quite a long ride,” Aziraphale says with all the dignity he can muster.

“Course it was,” Crowley laughs. “Go on then. I’ll park up.”

The kettle is whistling on the hob and Aziraphale happily humming as he spoons loose leaf into the pot. He glances through the doorway when the front door closes, then smiles warmly as Crowley slinks into the room. His glasses are still on, which makes Aziraphale set the spoon down.

“Dearest?” he asks, cautious.

Crowley gnaws on his lower lip, then thrusts out his hand and the discreet black bag he’s holding. “I– got you something. To take a look at.” A forced grin flashes across his cheeks and is gone. “Just… in case you…” He shrugs eloquently, then thrusts his hands into his pockets as soon as Aziraphale takes the bag. “Don’t– s’not– well… y’know.” 

Aziraphale opens the bag gingerly, peering inside. He can make out a book and a bundle of what appears to be rope. He frowns, puzzled, and raises his eyes, but Crowley has slithered away and at the far end of the hall, the bedroom door closes emphatically.

“Oh dear…”

He turns the flame off under the kettle and sits down at the table, tipping the contents of the bags out onto the table top. The bundle _is_ in fact rope, perhaps as thick as his pinkie, but remarkably smooth and soft. It’s a rich red colour and Aziraphale is utterly perplexed until he turns over the book and sees the illustration on the front cover. Rope features rather emphatically. And, as he leafs through it, there are other models, other ropes, other configurations.

Aziraphale’s eyes grow wide as he takes in each beautifully ornate arrangement. There is something exquisite and delicate about the knots and the binding. He glances at the rope, puzzled again. After all, Crowley has tied him up with many things why would he think Aziraphale would object…

Oh.

He touches his lips, emotion welling up in him.

The rope is _red_. It isn’t meant to bind Aziraphale. It’s meant– Crowley is offering– asking– inviting–

He opens the book again, gazing at the images, tracing the outlines of knots and cords, all so carefully threaded and bound together, one upon another. He thinks of the tangled mess that is his knitting, his only previous experience with any kind of fibre. It would be _dreadful_ to make such a mess when it’s something Crowley feels enough to ask for. This isn’t something he can do without very, very careful study.

He rises and hurries to the doorway, peering along the hall. The bedroom door is still firmly shut, so he slips into the living room and picks up the telephone.

A very familiar voice picked up. “Hello, Mr. Aziraphale! How are you?”

Aziraphale smiles warmly. “Hello, Marjorie, dear. I hope I’m not bothering you.”

“Not at _all_, dear. What can I help you with?”

Aziraphale glances towards the door, then curves his hand around the mouthpiece and whispers, “I was wondering if you might know anyone who could help me with a… rather specialised…” He clears his throat. “Well, you know. Intimate arrangement.”

Marjorie Potts, once known as Madame Tracy, chuckles. “Give me some specifics, Mr. Aziraphale, and I’ll see who I can find.”

Aziraphale sighs with relief. “Oh _thank you_.” He thinks about the book and the beautiful images and smiles. If that’s what Crowley wants, he will get it, even if it takes a little while for it to arrive.

_____________________________________

“What are you watching, my dear?”

Crowley glances back from the screen as Aziraphale settles behind him on the couch. “Nothing much,” he says, waving the remote. “Something about fish near Australia. Can put it off, if you want.”

Aziraphale smiles, lines creasing around his eyes. “No, let’s watch,” he says and Crowley feels the press of his leg against Crowley’s arm.

He tries to keep the dopey smile off his face, leaning sideways and draping his arm over Aziraphale’s thigh, propping himself against it. It’s… well… well, it’s nice, isn’t it? S’not like he can pretend it’s anything else, when every bit of that contact is a little bit safer and warmer. It comes so easily now, as if they’ve always been doing it.

“I tried scuba diving once,” he says, resting his cheek against his hand, his whole body angled nicely against Aziraphale’s.

“Oh?” It’s like a little touch of bliss when Aziraphale’s fingers sink into his hair.

“Mm.” Crowley keeps his eyes on the screen, forcing himself to breathe evenly, even as Aziraphale starts combing his fingers over and over again. “Sank like a bleeding rock.”

Aziraphale chuckles. “Scuba sinking hardly has the same ring to it, does it?”

“Don’t think it’ll catch on,” he agrees, tilting his head into Aziraphale’s touch.

“At least you get to see it through the television,” the angel murmurs.

Crowley nods, but the screen is a secondary consideration. Aziraphale’s fingers graze his scalp, stroking through his hair, untangling knots with infinite gentleness and patience. Crowley’s eyes dip closed and little by little, he tips further and further sideways, until his temple is resting on his arm.

“Darling,” Aziraphale murmurs, stroking his cheek.

“Mm?”

“Your television programme is finished, I think.”

Crowley squints up at the screen. It had only started when Aziraphale sat down. Was meant to be an hour as well! Bloody fast hour. “Oh. Right. Yeah.” Thank… Someone for catch-up options. He starts to sit up, but Aziraphale’s fingers are still tangled in his hair.

“Crowley.”

He tilts his head as much as he can. “Yeah?”

Aziraphale loosens his fingers. “May I… perhaps braid your hair?”

Crowley stares at him. “After last time?”

There were tangles. Scissors came into it as well.

The angel’s lips purse in mock irritation. “I’ve been _practising_,” he says haughtily. “I think you’ll be pleasantly surprised.”

Crowley considers it. What’s the worst that can happen? Maybe his hair goes a bit shorter, but that’s nothing compared to Aziraphale playing with his hair for hours on end and how happy it makes him. “Course,” he says, pushing himself onto his knees and winding his way around Aziraphale’s foot. “Legs apart, angel.”

Aziraphale complies at once and Crowley wriggles between them, draping his arms along the V of Aziraphale’s legs like a King on his throne.

“Enough room?”

The smile is warm in Aziraphale’s voice. “Quite.” He doesn’t – Crowley notice – snap his fingers or miracle up a brush and yet, suddenly, he has a brush and is drawing it smoothly through Crowley’s hair. Sneaky angel. Been planning this for a while, eh?

Still, it feels bloody amazing, the combination of the strokes of the brush and the fleeting whispers of Aziraphale’s fingertips against his skin. Over and over, he brushes, until Crowley’s hair is sleek and smooth in his hands and Crowley is sinking lower and lower between his legs.

“If I pull too hard, let me know,” Aziraphale murmurs and his fingers are in Crowley’s hair.

Crowley used to love watching women braiding one another’s hair. He had tried it now and then, but there was something nimble and delicate and quick about it he could never manage. But… but… but against all odds, he feels Aziraphale’s fingers weaving strand over strand from his crown downwards, tugging just enough to make his breath catch, just enough to draw his head back a little, enough to make him hiss softly as fingertips tease over his now-exposed nape.

“My love,” Aziraphale murmurs, knuckles skimming the back of Crowley’s neck. “May I ask you something?”

“Mm?” Awful time for questions, angel.

“Do you remember that book you gave me a few weeks ago?”

Abruptly, the weightless feeling in Crowley’s body evaporates, his shoulders tensing. Ah. Yeah. The book. The book and the rope and the words he couldn’t even bring himself to say. Can’t _ask_ for something, not something you want, can you, idiot?

He’s halfway to rising, running, fleeing before the reproach, the _disappointment_ can come, but Aziraphale is a sneaky bastard and Crowley’s hair is a rope in his hand and he gently pulls in wordless reminder. Helpless, Crowley sinks back down, staring blindly at the rug.

“Sh, sh, sh,” Aziraphale soothes gently, stroking his fingers down the side of Crowley’s neck and squeezing his shoulder with his broad, warm hand. “Don’t worry, my love. I only wanted to know if you would be in the mood to try it tonight?”

Crowley blinks stupidly at the floor, then the words sink in. He twists, heart drumming, to stare at the angel. “You– what?”

Aziraphale is smiling. No anger, no disappointment, no reproach. Smiling and pink-cheeked. Oh fuck, _that_ particular smile. Crowley knows that smile. Crowley’s been on the receiving end of that smile and couldn’t walk straight for two days after it.

“Ngk!” He wraps an arm around Aziraphale’s thigh, nods.

Aziraphale lights up, eyes shining. “Oh _good_,” he says happily, stroking Crowley’s cheek. “I have everything ready, just in case.”

Crowley makes a feeble choked sound, mind spinning. Not rejected. Not dismissed. Accepted. His suggestion. His… want.

Hands on his shoulders turn him back to face the front.

“I need to finish your hair, darling,” Aziraphale says, as if he hasn’t just cracked Crowley’s mind wide open and sent the thoughts spilling everywhere. “They don’t recommend loose hair for it. It can get tangled in the ropes.”

“Y-yeah…” Crowley… oh fuck, there’s no other word. He whimpers. He absolutely bloody whimpers. “Tangled.”

Aziraphale’s hands are flying now. Keen, Crowley thinks weakly. Oh _fuck_. Yeah, he wants– he’s been wondering about something like– but part of him– he half-expected–

“Angel,” he says, voice a rasp.

“Yes, darling?”

“Are you– you don’t _have_ to.”

Aziraphale’s knuckles skim the side of his neck, making him shiver deliciously. “Darling” Aziraphale leans down to breathe, soft and warm by his ear, “I’m _very_ excited to show you what I can do.”

“Mrp?” Crowley’s fingers scrabble at his thighs. “Y’can do?”

“Mm.” Aziraphale kisses his ear, then resumes braiding. “Is there… anything you would especially like?”

Apart from the rope and Aziraphale holding it? He hadn’t– it’s– he’s not one to care about what he gets out of anything. Never has been. Not for a long while.

“I would like to know,” Aziraphale says gently, as if he can read his whirling mind. “It would make me happy to know.”

Well, f’it’s for Aziraphale, that’s different. He wraps his arm around Aziraphale’s leg, shivering.

“Can–” Fuck, it shouldn’t be so _hard_. “Take care of me? Please?” His voice breaks and he forces a brittle laugh. “Is– is that all right?” 

Aziraphale leans down over him, wrapping his arms around Crowley’s shoulders. “Perfectly, my love,” he promises, his voice so soft and warm and full of love that Crowley has to press his cheek against Aziraphale’s arm and squeeze his eyes shut. No use getting soft about it all. “I _love_ taking care of you.”

“Angel…” Crowley’s voice is a pitiful whisper.

Aziraphale holds him close. “I know,” he says softly, as if that explains it all. And perhaps it does. Perhaps he knows Crowley better than Crowley knows himself.

For a long while, they just sit there in the quiet of the living room, Aziraphale holding him and Crowley just… being held. It’s… there’s no pressure in it. No force. No demands or pull or orders. It’s just… what he needs. Yeah. S’exactly that. Aziraphale knows how he gets. Gives him warmth and safety until he’s– until his head is… not where it sometimes ends up.

“You really want to give it a go?” Crowley finally asks, when his words come back in bits and fragments.

“It looks so beautiful,” Aziraphale murmurs, his cheek resting against Crowley’s hair. “And you always look marvellous in red.”

Crowley shuffles around to look up at him, then leans up, wrapping his arms around Aziraphale’s shoulders, burying his face in the blessed angel’s throat. “Don’t deserve you.”

Aziraphale’s hands stroke the length of his back. “Of course you do, my dear,” he murmurs. “You of all people deserve just a little bit of a bastard.”

Crowley sniffs hard and laughs damply. “Well… yeah, when you put it like that.” He rocks back on his heels and rubs at his eyes with the heels of his hands. “Shit. Sorry. I don’t know why–”

“Of course you do,” Aziraphale says with such an understanding smile that all the lingering knots in Crowley’s chest fray apart. The angel holds out his hands. “Shall we move things to the bedroom, my dearest?”

Crowley takes his hands at once, though he’s not sure which of them is pulling the other to their feet. Mutual, maybe. Together. Probably. Something daft and poetical and romantic and bollocks.

“I thought you didn’t want to,” he admits. “S’been a while.”

Aziraphale keeps hold of one of his hands, lifting Crowley’s knuckles to his lips. “I didn’t want to inflict something like my knitting on you,” he admits with a sheepish smile. “You deserve far better than a dropped stitch or six.”

Crowley laughs unsteadily, clutching Aziraphale’s hand like a lifeline as the angel leads him in the direction of the bedroom. “Yeah?”

“Mm.” The soft warmth in Aziraphale’s eyes steals his breath away. “I’ve been practising.”

Well, there goes Crowley’s brain again, punted straight out the window. “Uh.”

Aziraphale is… fucking angel is glowing already. Bloody bugger. Knows exactly what he’s doing.

“In you come,” he says, pushing the bedroom door wide.

The room is warm, still golden with early-evening sunlight, and Crowley’s legs give a rebellious wobble under him. Angel wasn’t joking. The rope is coiled neatly on the floor, beside the spread of Aziraphale’s tartan blanket and a miniature mountain of pillows.

Aziraphale only releases his hand once Crowley is standing in the middle of the blanket, but makes it worse by stepping right in close and reaching for Crowley’s buttons. “I think,” he murmurs as he methodically undoes and removes Crowley’s shirt, “we will start gently today.”

“Gently…” Crowley echoes, watching the angel neatly fold his shirt.

That familiar, soft, knowing smile touches Aziraphale’s lips and he lifts a hand, cupping Crowley’s face as if he’s the most precious and fragile thing he’s ever seen. “After all, we have plenty of time for more later, if you like it.”

More. Right. Yeah. More. Oh Jesus.

Crowley takes a deep, shaking breath. “Didn’t think you’d want to,” he blurts out. “I mean– not that– it’s just– I’m– it’s–”

Aziraphale’s lips touch his like a benediction. “I love you.”

“Angel–”

Another soft kiss. “You have done so many things for me,” he says gently. “And this? This is such a… beautiful thing to want.” He brushes the tip of his nose against Crowley’s. “Never be afraid to ask me, Crowley. The worst I will do is say no and the best…” His eyes flick down to the rope, and that wicked bastard gleam is back in them. “Well, I think we both know we are quite adventurous souls, don’t we?”

“Gnah,” Crowley says. Very eloquently, too. His fingers tugs at Aziraphale’s vest and best he can do is sway in and kiss him.

Aziraphale smiles against his lips, then takes Crowley’s hands in his own. “Hands and chest only, I think,” he says firmly.

Anything, Crowley wants to say. Whatever. Anything you want.

“Mpf,” he says, squeezing the angel’s fingers.

Aziraphale’s eyes gleam. “Don’t move,” he cautions. “You have to do _exactly_ what I tell you. Do you understand?”

“Y-yeah.”

Aziraphale steps back and stoops to pick up the rope, drawing a couple of lengths loose. It swings back and forth and Crowley can’t stop staring. Aziraphale rubs his thumb along at, then steps back in close to him.

“Arms around my shoulders, my love,” he murmurs.

Crowley almost trips himself in his haste to obey and all at once, they’re flush against each other and Aziraphale’s face is so close to his, all those soft lines and that warmth and the glint on his eyes.

“Good,” he says, the purr in his voice making Crowley’s toes curl.

His arms slip around Crowley’s waist, the fabric whispering intimately close, making the demon shiver. The angel’s eyes are locked on Crowley’s and Crowley can’t help hissing through his teeth as the length of rope is drawn, feather-light, across the bare skin of his back. The lines around Aziraphale’s eyes deepen and that– he drags it – side to side – over and over –

“Oh dear,” he murmurs. “Your hair…”

Crowley opens his mouth to protest as the rope falls away, but all that comes out is a breathless whine. Aziraphale– his finger– tracing up nape– under braid, lifting. Crowley clutches at Aziraphale’s shoulders. And the breath puffs from his lips as the rope pulls firmly against skin.

“Ah…” The finger is trailing over his shoulder, the braid with it. “Much better, don’t you think?”

“Mm.”

The lightest of kisses touches his lips. “Good.” Aziraphale’s hands move, one splaying and trailing down to join the other. Crowley shivers as rope and skin press and twist in turn against his ribs and across the valley of his spine.

When Aziraphale steps back from him, letting his arms fall, Crowley’s hands tremble by his sides. Lengths of red rope are held on either side of his waist, curled around Aziraphale’s hands, held securely and confidently, and fuck… that’s– it’s only one loop around him so far…

“Arms out,” Aziraphale says, then because he’s bloody Aziraphale, smiles brightly and adds, “Please.”

Could look, he thinks. Could look down and watch the knots taking shape. Simple. Turn eyes downwards. Not difficult. But he can’t look away from Aziraphale. Not when all that concentrated focus is on him. The little furrow between his brow, the little purse of his lips, the small “ah!” of triumph…and all that with the rasp of cord on his skin as slowly, slowly, Aziraphale draws the rope up and over and round, threading between careful fingers until his face illuminates and then he pulls _tight_.

Crowley’s breath hitches, tension, something like panic, but not, something better flaring.

Should feel wrong. Should feel like captivity and imprisonment and threat, but it _doesn’t_. Can’t be _anything_ like that, not when Aziraphale smiles like that. He’s… he’s practised. For Crowley. He went. He learned. He practised. He’s _excited_.

The angel beams at him. “This is lovely rope, isn’t it? So flexible!” He holds up a loop in his hand. “I’ll do another. See if we can’t get you nice and snug!”

Snug. Crowley laughs breathlessly. “Yeah…”

Aziraphale steps in close again, knocking his brow gently against Crowley’s. “Arms around me.”

Crowley obeys and feels those broad, warm hands skim around his bare ribs again, and from the look in Aziraphale’s eyes – shimmering like mercury – he _knows_ what he’s doing, trailing both lengths of rope in a wake behind his fingertips. Crowley’s hands tighten, clutching the back of his waistcoat and that bastard-smile flashes across his lips.

“Oh, I do like seeing you like this,” he murmurs.

Crowley half-snorts. “Nothing special.”

Aziraphale’s hand slips beneath the band already neatly in place. It _aches_ as it tightens across Crowley’s ribs, but it presses him even closer and the angel’s face is so close to his. “Very special, my darling.” He claims a soft kiss, then draws his fingers free, raking them down Crowley’s spine.

“Nrk!”

Aziraphale chuckles, then steps back out of Crowley’s grip, circling around him. Crowley’s hands twitch by his sides and he risks a glance down, his heart giving a little jump at the parallel strips of red twined around his ribs. It’s pressing in, but it feels… good. As if he is seeing Aziraphale wrapped around him.

Two fingers press gently between his shoulder blades. “Arms out, my love.”

It’s like a dance, he thinks, Aziraphale leading his steps. In front, behind, his hand skimming ghost-soft over a bare arm, fingertips tracing the lines of both rib and rope, the dip and twist and press so close to him, the momentary pause before the _tug_ and the tightness that follows, making him press his eyes shut with every fresh knot.

Not just his ribs anymore, no. Over his shoulders, under, criss-crossing around his chest. Like armour. Like the warmest of blankets. Like Aziraphale wrapped around him even when he’s not touching him. Enclosed and warm and _safe_.

“Your arms, my love,” Aziraphale murmurs against his ear, his body a second skin at Crowley’s back.

He steps back and takes Crowley’s submitted wrists.

The loop of rope whispers against the skin and–

And Crowley’s somewhere else. A chair. A column of fire. And–and–and

The rope is gone from his wrist at once, replaced with a warm hand. “Crowley? Too fast?”

“Heaven,” Crowley gasps out. “They– there…

Aziraphale’s thumb strokes the bare skin. “It’s enough for now, my love.”

Crowley twists to look over his shoulder at him. “No,” he whispers. “_No_. Make it _better_. Make it _good_.”

Aziraphale’s thumb strokes in slow circles, soothing the sudden panic and anger that had welled in him. “Did they use rope too?”

Crowley nods, turning his face away.

“Well then,” Aziraphale murmurs, “I know _exactly_ what to do.” He does… something with the rope, getting the trailing ends out of the way, then his hands are light on Crowley’s shoulders. “You’re safe, my love.”

And Crowley knows he is. Course he is. He laughs unsteadily. “Don’t need to tell me that.”

“Oh, but I like to.” Aziraphale’s palms skim downwards, sending fresh shivers through Crowley’s body, then his wrists are caught in those firm warm hands and abruptly, breath-takingly, hot kisses press to his palms and his fingertips and then up to his wrists. “Lord, I would love to have you like this and lick honey from every part of you…”

Crowley’s brain is suddenly white noise and he sways.

Aziraphale chuckles. “Maybe another day,” he murmurs, though he – _absolute bastard _– sucks, then licks at the delicate skin of Crowley’s inner wrist, sending a jolt of fire through him. Fabric whispers on fabric, then something very not-rope slithers against his wrist.

Crowley tries to focus, tries to… something… but it loops, smooth and flat, around his wrists. Different feel. Different texture. Not so tight either. Just enough. He pushes his hands apart, feels it draw tighter, but still loose. Angel has it right. Better. _Good_.

Aziraphale’s hands skims back up Crowley’s arm as he rises and he draws him back, holding him close, one hand tracking the pattern of cords around his chest. “There,” he murmurs, splaying his hand over the rosette of knots over Crowley’s chest. “That’s much better, isn’t it?”

Crowley nods, leaning into him. Strains his arms a bit, but good strain, and uncurls his fingers to tug at Aziraphale’s waistcoat.

“You look so lovely, you know,” Aziraphale murmurs. One finger, then another thread under the ropes, drawing them just that little bit tighter. Crowley hisses weakly, his head falling back against Aziraphale’s shoulder. “It…” There’s a hitch in his voice. “Oh, Crowley, it makes me so very _happy_ that you… that we…” He laughs a little shakily. “Thank you for trusting me.”

S’words to say, but Crowley can only lean, feel the warmth of him all up his back, the breadth, the snug ropes holding him.

“I think,” Aziraphale says softly, “you ought to lie down.”

“Mm.” Crowley sways on his feet, then groans softly as Aziraphale moves his hand to grip that pattern of dense knots on his chest, the ropes all pulling good and tight.

“Down we go, my darling,” Aziraphale breathes, stepping to one side. Crowley shudders as the angel’s other hand curls under his neck. His legs fold, boneless, and the ropes pull against his back and chest, and for a moment, he sways, body arching above the ground, only Aziraphale’s hands and the cords holding him.

The angel’s face is over him, warm and close. “Yes, my love,” he says softly, dipping down over Crowley, eyes bright as a lake at sunrise. “Down we go.”

And there’s softness under him, pillows and blankets and Aziraphale is beside him, his hand slipping further under his neck, to wrist, to elbow, drawing him closer, until he is all spilled against the angel, cheek to his shoulder, shivering against him.

“There,” Aziraphale murmurs, cradling him, stroking his cheek. “Safely descended.”

Crowley closes his eyes, leaning into him. A good kind of fall, he thinks. If they were all like that, in the hands of an angel…

Aziraphale murmurs to him. Nothing but soft meaningless nonsense. Good kind of quiet noise. And he tugs, gentle, playful on Crowley’s braid. Daft angel. Lovely, safe, silly, angel. Crowley shifts, rubbing his cheek against Aziraphale’s shoulder, his eyes heavy. Little by little, he manages to open them and is greeted by the sight of Aziraphale’s collar. Unbuttoned. No tie.

Crowley blinks stupidly. Had a tie. When they came in. Definitely had…

He shifts his hands, feeling for the bonds around his wrists. “Angel…”

“Yes, love?”

“S’your bowtie on my wrists?”

A smiling kiss presses to his forehead. “Yes.”

Oh. Oh _fuck_. Never gonna be able to look at bowties the same again.

“I thought,” Aziraphale murmurs, happily wandering through the fragments of Crowley’s poor scattered brain, “that it was something they’d never think to use.”

“Mm.” Crowley stares blankly at that gaping collar. Just needs to sway a little small bit and…

“Oh!”

Crowley beams and licks the nice new mark. Better. He sighs, nestling happily against Aziraphale’s shoulder and Aziraphale wraps him up in arms as snug and close as the rope. Heh. Snug. Good word for it. Ssssnug.

S’nice.

S’good.

Aziraphale strokes fingers down his side, over his arms, then – some bit time, no idea how much later – helps him to sit back up. Crowley peers at him, watching his face all frowning in concentration. Work face, that. And then tug, tug, tug… and rope starts to unravel.

Crowley groans again, softly, breathing in deep. Tingling in all the places where the ropes were. Like the best kind of pins and needles. Another tug, and his hands are free and he brings them around, running his fingers along the grooves in his chest. Like trails. Soft and ridged like the rope.

Aziraphale’s hand covers his. “Everything you hoped for?”

Crowley looks at him, so close and soft and glowy. Yeah. Definitely. Amazing. Brilliant. And he sways forward and smacks his mouth into the angel’s. S’the only way his tongue’s gonna work, isn’t it? Feels Aziraphale laugh, then a hand on his braid, tugging, gently pulling his head back.

“That’s a yes, then?”

Crowley nods happily, then tips himself forward onto the angel and both of them land in a laughing heap on the pillows and blankets all over the floor. He buries his face in Aziraphale’s throat and snuggles as close as he can. Yeah, s’a snuggle. Happens sometimes.

“Thank you,” he whispers.

Aziraphale just wraps him up in his arms and holds him tight and everything feels _right_.

**Author's Note:**

> Come find me [on tumblr](https://amuseoffyre.tumblr.com/), if you want to know what I'm getting up to :)


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